


Come Play with Me

by Boom



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: College Student Stiles Stilinski, Detective Derek Hale, Detective Vernon Boyd, Erica is a hot shot lawyer, Finstock owns a drag bar, Gen, Jeff took too long the sheriff's name is John and he can die mad about it, Medium!Stiles, Minor Allison Argent/Scott McCall, Minor Vernon Boyd/Erica Reyes, chick!greenburg, dead!greenburg (sorry), living doll!Greenburg, no further questions your honor
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-11
Updated: 2021-03-08
Packaged: 2021-03-18 02:13:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 11,113
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29360850
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Boom/pseuds/Boom
Summary: Stiles is used to seeing dead people. Usually they're kindly and old and just stopping in for a chat, but other times... Other times it's a little more complicated.
Relationships: Derek Hale/Stiles Stilinski
Comments: 31
Kudos: 116





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This work is still in progress, but I've been sitting on it for, like, what? Four years? So here, I'm still gonna be working at it, but at least you can see what's what. Cheers.
> 
> !!!!OH WAIT ALSO!!!!
> 
> This work is rated M because I don't know how to regulate my descriptions of gore. No sexy times, sorry.

Stiles was having a good day. Really. The sun was shining, he’d gotten out of his last class early, Scott had called to remind him it was taco night, and the subway station was basically empty. Stiles sighed, leaning back on the bench as he waited for his train, music blaring happily through his headphones, and decided to ignore the pull he felt on his mind asking him to look, to see. He got feelings like this all the time, especially in the tunnels under Manhattan. He didn’t like to think about _why_ entities were trying to get his attention down here, but most of the time, if he ignored them long enough, they would go away on their own. 

This was not that time.

Stiles’ eyes snapped wide when he heard a firm voice say, _“Look,”_ which, that was just unfair, making him nearly jump out of his skin and see…

A doll.

A living doll standing three feet in front of him. Her eyes were an eerie bright green, almost too bright to be real, but her pupils were disproportionately dilated, making contacts an impossibility. Her skin was deathly white and though her dress was pristine, all black bows on pink fabric with a high collar and short poufy sleeves, her lips were sewn shut with a thick, rough chord. One thing was for sure, he’d never seen a spirit look like that. He blinked at her, taking her in then checked his surroundings before speaking, “Hello.”

The girl’s eyes seemed to focus on him, but she never actually moved.

“I’m Stiles,” he said, taking out his headphones and rolling them into his pocket, “What’s your name?”

_Molly_ , she told him.

“It’s nice to meet you, Molly,” Stiles smiled encouragingly, “Do you know where you are right now?”

She was silent, unmoving. It was starting to make Stiles uncomfortable. She seemed to shift, her energy felt off somehow. Then like the snap of a rubber band, she crumpled to the floor as if every joint in her body popped out at once. Without thinking, Stiles jumped to his feet to help her, but she was gone and his spastic leap had others around him glancing over. He blinked, shaking his head as his train pulled up and, not for the first time, wondered why he’d moved to New York City.


	2. Chapter 2

Stiles was used to seeing weird stuff. He’d grown up in a small northern California town with so much weird, he would’ve had to have been out of touch not to notice. But of course Stiles noticed things differently. He had to be even more socially awkward than any average high schooler had any right to be. Because Stiles saw ghosts. Even worse, he _talked_ to ghosts. Regularly. And the only person who believed they were real ghosts and not a psychotic break was his best buddy Scott. Not saying his dad wasn’t supportive, but he was the town sheriff and walking into your kitchen to see your son talking animatedly to an empty chair… well it made a man wonder. 

Then there was that time Stiles’ Junior year when an entity had been sending him all kinds of terrible dreams, so bad he’d refused to sleep and couldn’t tell when he was awake. Stiles had himself institutionalized (John had not been happy about it) for a month. There he had met Malia, another girl who believed in what Stiles could see. By the time Stiles was released Malia had aged out, so they stayed fast friends through the rest of high school and when Scott and Stiles had gotten into NYU (Allison having gotten a full ride to a school not far away), Malia decided to join them in moving across the country. She had no interest in going to college, but she had even less interest in staying in Beacon Hills.

Stiles was honestly happy to have her around. She was weird, sure, and had an interesting take on boundaries, but she was always ready to listen. And at the moment, that’s what Stiles needed.

“What’s going on?” she asked as Stiles closed the door behind them, “You look like you just had a weird sex dream about Scott again.”

“What?” Stiles nearly squawked, “No! No, I just need to tell you about something, but thank you for bringing back that truly horrible memory.”

“No problem. Is it a spooky something?” she asked, sipping from her beer and taking a seat on Stiles’ bed. She tipped the bottle toward Stiles but he declined.

“I saw a girl on my way home,” Stiles took a seat next to her.

“Was she cute?” Malia asked.

Stiles gave her a look, “She was dead.”

Malia just shrugged, pressing the bottle to her lips, “My question still stands.”

Stiles rolled his eyes, “She was dressed like one of those living dolls. And her mouth was sewn shut.”

“Ouch,” Malia made a face, “Did she say anything?”

Stiles shrugged, “All she’d say was her name was Molly, then she, like, collapsed.”

“Collapsed how?”

“I don’t know, just collapsed,” Stiles made a motion with his hand like something wiping out, “Like all her bones disappeared. Like a rag doll.”

“Was she dressed like a rag doll?” Malia asked interestedly.

“Oh my God, you are the worst,” Stiles groaned, “I’m trying to be serious here.”

“Mm,” Malia downed the last of her beer and smacked her lips, “Worst idea ever.”

Stiles gave up and let her go back to the others, claiming a headache and knowing full well Malia would tell Scott and Allison all about his sighting. He tossed and turned for an hour before finally settling with his legs pulled close to his chest, his hands pressed to the small of his back. He breathed through his nose as quietly as he could, trying to calm his rising heartbeat. He felt cold, exposed, the corner against his back felt like little protection even in the darkness of his room. He tried to take a deep breath but something was wrong with his mouth. It was hurting, bleeding, bound tight with—

Stiles thrashed into wakefulness, a scream just past his lips even as he slid haphazardly to the floor. Scott came barreling in with Allison and Malia two steps behind him. Allison had her bow which was nice (if by nice one meant wholeheartedly intimidating) and Malia, for God knows what reason, was holding a butcher knife like she had every intention of using it. 

Scott, who was blessedly unarmed but just as shaken as the others, asked, “What happened?”

For a second Stiles gawked, too off balance to think beyond his friends busting into his room. He could still feel the rough chord against his teeth, smell the stale air of wherever the living doll had been kept for days—

“Stiles!”

“I’m fine,” Stiles said immediately, focusing on Scott right in front of him, blinking rapidly against the images still swimming through his head.

“How many fingers do I have?” Scott persisted, holding his hands splayed wide.

“Scott, I know I’m awake…”

“Humor me,” he smiled.

Stiles sighed before rubbing roughly at his eyes and counting carefully, “10.”

“Okay,” Scott dropped his hands to his lap where he sat cross legged in front of Stiles, “You wanna tell us what happened?”

Stiles blew out a long breath and shook his head, “It was just a dream.”

Malia scoffed, “None of your dreams are _just_ dreams. Even I know that.”

“Does it have to do with the girl you saw in the subway?” Scott asked gently. Allison had loosened her draw, her arrow pointed to the ground as she listened.

Stiles nodded to answer Scott’s question, “It was rough.”

“Do you need to call Morrell?”

“I don’t need to call my shrink every time I have a bad dream, Scott.”

“You could always take your benzo,” Malia offered.

Stiles made a face, “It wasn’t that bad.”

“Sounded that bad,” she shrugged, leaving the room, hopefully to replace the knife in the kitchen where it belonged.

“You’re sure you’re okay?” Allison finally asked.

Stiles looked up at her and smiled reassuringly, “I’m sure. Thank you.”

She didn’t look very mollified, but nodded anyway, giving him her own comforting smile.

“Go,” Stiles gave his best friend a little nudge, “Be with your girlfriend. I’m sorry I woke you.”

“We were actually watching a movie,” Scott corrected, “Wanna join us?”

Stiles opened his mouth to decline, but stopped himself, “Yeah, sure I’ll be right out.”

Scott nodded and got to his feet. As soon as he was gone Stiles curled in on himself, taking deep breaths until he could stop his hands from shaking. Then he reached for a notebook peeking out of his backpack to take some notes.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the chapter previously posted as a teaser. Because I don't want to be a monster, I'll be posting two chapters tonight. 
> 
> Cheers~

The precinct was exactly nothing and everything like the Sheriff’s station back home. People bustled everywhere, some cuffed and headed for a temporary cell, others released from the drunk tank and receiving their things, officers milling around drinking coffee or filling out paperwork… There was a distinct lack of brown and khaki, which at first kinda threw him. That and he didn’t know a single person.

“Can I help you?” the man behind the desk looked mean and critical, which didn’t help Stiles' nerves. When he did this at home, he could just tell his father or Parrish and they would do a lot of the digging for him. 

“Yes,” Stiles cleared his throat, his face heating, “I, uh… I need to speak with an officer. Please.”

The man grunted, “Anyone in particular?”

“Someone in homicide?” Stiles didn’t mean for it to come out as a question. Apparently neither did the man.

“Homicide,” he stated.

Stiles nodded, “Yeah.”

“Did you witness a murder?”

“Uh…” this was always the hard part, “Kind of. Not in the classic sense.”

The officer just stared at him. Stiles shifted uncomfortably. He kicked himself for not calling his dad to get a second opinion that morning. Instead he’d run directly to a precinct and this one wasn’t even close to his apartment. He didn’t want to dissect why he’d come here specifically, instead lumping it with it’s proximity to his first class of the day a few blocks over and leaving it at that. He didn’t like thinking he was that far in tune with his spirit guides.

“Not in the classic sense,” the officer repeated.

“Listen, I know it sounds ridiculous, okay? But I’ve done this before.”

“Have you.”

“Not,” Stiles let out an exasperated sound and turned to leave before turning back, “Not like that. Please can I just talk to a detective?”

The man slowly did a once over, then finally picked up his phone, “Can you tell me anything about this murder you didn’t witness in the classic sense?”

Stiles bit his tongue before speaking, “It involves a girl, like, mid to late twenties, green eyes, pink hair, pink dress. I think she was high or something.”

“Okay,” the officer didn’t look like he believed a word of it, “Go take a seat, someone will be over in a minute.”

“Thanks,” Stiles stepped out of line, feeling like a complete idiot. He could’ve just handed the officer the notes he’d made about the dream and the girl and been done with it, let the chips fall where they may, but Stiles had always been too thick for his own good. He set his backpack by his feet and got comfortable for a long wait. Ten minutes passed. Then 20. At 30, Stiles stood to ask if anyone was coming to see him only to get a curt line about how busy they were and they would get to him as soon as possible. Stiles huffed and sat back down, typing out an email to his professor that he wouldn’t be making it to class. An hour later, he wrote an email to the professor of his next class and pulled out some homemade chex mix a la Allison. Meaning it was essentially a meal substitute in a quart sized bag. Almost an hour after that, Stiles was about to call it quits when someone finally called, “Mr. Stilinski?”

“Yeah,” Stiles jerked up to see the most handsome, rugged, irritated scowl he’d ever witnessed in his life.

“I’m Detective Hale,” Scowly introduced stiffly as they shook hands, “I believe you told Officer Estes you may have some information about a potential homicide?”

Stiles nodded, his throat bobbing, “Yeah, I, uh…”

Detective Hale’s eyebrows rose, waiting for Stiles to finish. Only Stiles couldn’t remember what he was about to say, “Murder,” he settled on lamely, then with more certainty, “She was definitely murdered.”

“Do you know where she was murdered?” Detective Hale asked, leading Stiles further into the building.

“No, but,” Stiles pulled his backpack off his shoulder and rifled through it quickly, pulling out the notebook he’d used the night before, “I have other details about where she may have been before that.”

Detective Hale frowned at the notebook when he flipped it open, “Is this…?”

“Oh shit, sorry,” Stiles hurriedly took the notebook back, face flushing, “Sorry I’m an art major at NYU, that was a sketch of one of my assignments…” Stiles flipped through the nudes and doodles until he got to the room he’d drawn the night before, “This one and the next two pages.”

The detective studied the drawing, then glanced at Stiles before flipping the page, “What is this?”

“That’s the girl I saw,” Stiles replied.

“And these are notes…” there may have been a question there, but Detective Hale stopped suddenly, “Would you mind coming with me please?”

Stiles didn’t even nod, just followed the detective through the bullpen and into an interrogation room. He took a seat where the Detective motioned before sweeping out of the room with barely a glance backward. Stiles made himself comfortable, hoping this wait wouldn’t take nearly as long as the last one. In fact it was only 20 minutes. Detective Hale returned with another man, dark skinned and just as blank faced. Stiles felt what could only be described as a pressure drop into the room, one he was very used to.

“Mr. Stilinski,” Detective Hale began, “This is my partner, Detective Boyd. If you don’t mind, he’s going to sit in on our conversation.”

Stiles eyes flicked behind Hale and Boyd to the one way mirror, “Sure. Could I take notes?”

Hale and Boyd exchanged a glance before Hale nodded. Stiles pulled out another notebook, this one with actual lined paper, and a pen. 

Hale began, “Just to get us started, I have a few rudimentary questions for you.”

Stiles picked up his own pen and started writing, “Shoot.”

“Your full name, please.”

“Unpronounceable,” Stiles smiled, then spelled it out, “But everyone calls me Stiles.”

Boyd blinked down at the paper he’d been filling out, then nodded to Hale to continue.

“Do you live in the city?”

“In Queens,” Stiles nodded, rattling off the address, “I’ve got three roommates and I’m in my fourth semester at NYU.”

“So you’re not a resident of New York?”

“My ID still says California,” he confirmed, the pressure on his head growing briefly before dispersing all together. Stiles rushed through the last of his notes before setting down his pen with a sigh and giving the detective his full attention.

“Okay,” Hale pushed Stiles notebook forward, turned to the drawing of the girl, “Do you know this woman?”

“A little,” Stiles said, “Her name was Molly.”

“Was?” Boyd asked.

Stiles nodded, shifting in his seat, “I’m pretty sure she’s dead.”

“What makes you say that?” Hale asked.

Stiles blew out a long breath, puffing out his cheeks before spreading his fingers wide, “I’m psychic.”

Both detectives stared at him, “Psychic.”

“I see ghosts.”

Boyd dropped his pen to the paper and Hale sat back, looking monumentally pissed which really _really_ shouldn’t be such a good look on him.

“I know it sounds like a line, but I promise I’m not lying,” Stiles said, “I was waiting for the N, minding my own business when I get someone yelling at me to open my eyes, and when I do she’s there. Last night she—“

“Someone yelled at you?” Hale asked, “Someone else saw her too?”

Stiles deflated slightly, “No. It was my guides telling me to get my shit together. Kinda like an auditory hallucination, with no schizophrenia.”

“You’re sure about that?” Boyd deadpanned.

Stiles stiffened, “Yes, Detective, I’m sure. Look, can I please just tell you what she told me so I can go?”

“You can leave at any point in time, Mr. Stilinski,” Hale replied, looking dismissive.

“Please stop calling me that, okay, it’s Stiles. People don’t even call my _dad_ Mr. Stilinski, it’s weird.”

“What do they call your dad?”

Stiles narrowed his eyes, starting to lose his patience, “Sheriff.”

Hales brows rose and he let out a little, “Huh.” As if dots were connecting in his head.

“Listen, I’m really sorry if you feel like I wasted your time,” Stiles stated, frustration and fatigue from having waited so long washing over him, “Everything you really need is right there so…”

Stiles ripped the three pages out of his notebook, then with more hesitation, the page he’d written out earlier, handing it directly to Detective Boyd without making eye contact while leaving the others on the table and packing his bag.

“Oh,” Stiles stopped at the door, “I kept hearing screaming. Not like human screaming, but like metal on metal.”

Then he turned on his heel, letting the door slam shut behind him and feeling like an idiot. He was out the front door and almost to the crosswalk when someone shouted behind him. Stiles turned to see Detective Boyd, looking livid. If Stiles’ hadn’t been positive Boyd could take him down, he would’ve run. 

“What the fuck is this?" Boyd brandished the paper in front of Stiles’ face.

“Um,” Stiles' mind froze.

“Who the fuck told you about her?” he demanded, “Is this a fucking joke to you?”

“What? No!” Stiles took a step back, his hands placating, “I’m sorry, your sister’s fierce! I couldn’t tune her out!”

“Are you kidding me?” Boyd looked like he was about to blow.

“Why would I lie about something like this?” Stiles asked, trying for placating but probably sounding annoyed, “She just wanted me to tell you to stop overthinking it, okay? Well actually her words were ‘get your head out of your ass’, but I figured you wouldn’t take that as well from a total stranger.”

Boyd stared, his shoulders falling, “What?”

“Your sister,” Stiles said a little slower, “She wants you to get your head out of your ass and take this Erica chick home. She says your mom’ll love her and you’re overthinking it. Also, good call on the necklace instead of the ring.”

The detective just stood there, “How the fuck do you know all this?”

Stiles only shrugged, “She told me.”

“What about this?” Boyd held up the paper once more, pointing to the bottom, “Lil Ali? How’d you know that?”

“She told me,” Stiles said again, “And before you ask, she demanded I draw the kitty heart thing, she said you wouldn’t believe it was her otherwise.”

“She used to draw it on everything,” Boyd said, looking at the page as if in a new light, “It was like her signature.”

Stiles didn’t really know what to say after that, so he just smiled, “Well I hope it helps.”

He turned to go but Boyd stopped him again, placing a hand on his shoulder. He looked hesitant, “I could get fired for telling you this. It could be considered tipping you off.”

Stiles went cold, “Am I a suspect?”

Boyd’s scrunched mouth said it all, “That list you gave us; it reads like a murder fantasy checklist.”

“Oh,” Stiles gulped, “I’m not the killer.”

“You don’t really fit the profile,” Boyd replied, “But don’t leave town for a few days.”

Stiles felt his head bobble, “Yeah, of course.”

“And this girl,” Boyd questioned, seeming to slip into cop mode without even thinking about it, “You’re sure about your description?”

“One hundred percent,” Stiles confirmed.

The detective shook his head, “We don’t have anyone matching it at the MEs.”

Stiles' heart sank, “No one?”

“Don’t worry,” Boyd looked grim but determined, “We’ll find her.”

“Thanks,” Stiles watched Boyd’s retreating back before something he said caught up with him, _You don’t really fit the profile_ , “Detective!”

Boyd turned on the steps to the precinct.

Stiles licked his lips, eyes darting along the street before he called, “Are there others?”

Boyd’s lips thinned, and he nodded once before disappearing back inside.


	4. Chapter 4

Stiles expected the dream that night, and because he expected it, he could pay better attention to the details.

“Tell me what happened,” he said, looking down at the little girl’s hand. It was all she would allow him to see: a tattered white glove covering scraped skin matted with blood and shattered finger nails once painted a soft warm pink. Stiles knew the rest of her was just as broken, just as damaged as the small bit of her he was allowed to see. Her dress was different. In his mind's eye, he saw swaths of black lace covering her from wrist to ankle, her high collar and thick crinoline veil covering all but her mouth and that harsh black chord.

She pulled him along a hall he knew; back when he and Malia had been in Eichen House, when he couldn’t sleep and she was feeling trapped, they would explore areas they technically weren’t allowed in. One of their favorite spots had been this one, this hall. Because you could scream for hours and no one would ever hear you.

“Where are you taking me?” Stiles asked. The scene changed. The little girl wasn’t little anymore, but the walls were still cement. The pipes still rattled with every loose _kuh kuh kuh kuh kUH KUH KUH KUH_ coming closer. Stiles stared at the little girl, now a woman, naked, and cowering. Her hands were broken and tied together, her back was to the corner even as the sound got louder and louder, taking up the hall. Her eyes were wide and round and she was standing, exactly how she’d been on the train platform, pink and black dress immaculate as she pointed over Stiles shoulder. He turned in confusion, trying to see, but a hand, too large to be human, wrapped around his neck. The screeching got louder. He felt his body go limp as the hand shook, then dropped, and he was falling, and the sound was coming, and the light was bright, bright, too bright—

“ _Stiles!_ "

Stiles jerked awake, his head thudding dully, and blinked up to Scott, whose face was pale, “You okay?”

“What?” Stiles rubbed the sleep from his eyes, sitting up fully, “Yeah. Yeah I’m fine.”

“You were screaming pretty loud.”

“Shit, sorry man, I—“

There was a rapid thumping on the door then a call in a familiar voice, “Police! Open up!”

Scott and Stiles gaped, leaping into action as soon as the pounding got louder, “Police!”

“Wait! Wait, I’m coming! Don’t break the door!” Scott shouted as Stiles scrounged the floor for a shirt.

“What the hell is going on?” Malia grouched from her doorway as Scott unlatched the front door to show Detectives Hale and Boyd, both with blank expressions, hands on their sidearms.

“Does a Stiles Stilinski live here?” Detective Hale asked.

“Yeah I’m here, I’m here, it’s me,” Stiles nearly fell over the coffee table in his rush to get the detectives from his room, still pulling at his shirt, “What’s going on? Did you find her?”

“Are these the detectives you talked to?” Malia asked interestedly, eying them up and down but making no move to come closer.

“Malia, could you go start some coffee?” Scott directed, giving her a look. She rolled her eyes, but went to the kitchen. Scott turned to the detectives, his best puppy grin in place and a supportive hand on Stiles' shoulder, “Please, come in. Sorry, it’s been a crazy morning.”

“We heard screaming,” Boyd said, eyes flicking around the room.

“Yeah, that was me,” Stiles motioned for the detectives to have a seat on the couch while he took a folding chair from the corner, “I was, uh… I was having a nightmare.”

“Must’ve been some nightmare,” Hale commented, still staring. His eyes were unreadable, but the thin set of his lips spoke volumes of his disapproval. Stiles shrugged in response as Malia returned, handing him a steaming mug.

“Can I get you guys anything?” Scott asked from his spot at Stiles’ elbow, “Coffee? Water? RedBull? That’s kinda all we have.”

“Water is fine, thank you,” Hale replied. Scott nodded, steering Malia back into the kitchen.

“So what happened?” Stiles asked, leaning forward, “Did you find her?”

“We found her,” Hale confirmed, “And we have a few follow up questions.”

“I had another dream too,” Stiles said, sitting up a bit straighter, “Do you want that before or after your questions?”

The detectives glanced between each other, “Before,” Hale stated.

“Okay,” Stiles looked into his coffee, the adrenaline from the nightmare still fresh even through the confusion of the morning, “She was leading me down this hallway and there’s this loud noise, like a thunking. I think it was coming from the pipes, and it got louder the further down the hall we got. Then she showed me how she was bound and… I mean I guess how she was killed.”

“And how was that?” Hale asked, leaning forward. Boyd was taking notes next to him.

Stiles felt the hand around his neck, shaking him, falling, and the too bright light, “She was strangled. But not totally strangled. I think she was really killed by a train, but whoever threw her on the tracks thought she was already dead.”

The detectives took another look at each other.

“We’re waiting for the ME’s report,” Boyd said carefully, “But she was definitely hit by a train. At least once.”

“This hallway,” Hale said, “The one she walked you down; would you recognize it if you saw it again?”

Stiles shook his head instantly, “I know that hall. It’s not in this city. I think it was more a representation of where she was held: somewhere no one could hear her shout for help.”

“You know this hallway?” Hale’s brows rose.

“Yeah," Stiles shifted, wanting to move on, "it’s in a hospital back in my hometown.”

“Are you all talking about Eichen House?” Malia set two ice waters on the coffee table, looking between them.

“Eichen House?” Hale asked, looking between Stiles and Malia, “What’s Eichen House?”

“It’s the psyche ward where Stiles and I met,” Malia explained.

“Malia!” Stiles hissed, his heart skipping.

“What?” Malia stared Stiles down, “It’s nothing to be ashamed of.”

“You spent time in a mental institution,” it sounded less like a question from Hale, more like a statement for confirmation. Boyd’s face closed at the news.

“It was a month in high school,” Stiles said uneasily, “I was having a hard time sleeping.”

“He’s a lot better now,” Scott called from the kitchen doorway, hands clutching his mug like a vice.

“Oh, definitely,” Malia made a face, “He used to scream bloody murder, now he just screams... murder."

She sniggered at her own joke. No one else made a sound. Stiles thought he was going to be sick. Hale looked like he was about to break skulls.

"Malia," Stiles said carefully, "Could you--"

"Hey Malia, come talk to me for a minute," Scott called, disappearing into the kitchen. Malia shot Scott's back a confused look, then glanced at Stiles and the detectives worriedly before getting up from where she was leaning.

"It's nothing to be ashamed of," she said again, almost insistently, "You know that, Stiles."

"Yeah, I know," Stiles replied, not meeting her eyes, not meeting anyone's eyes, "Thanks, Malia."

When she was finally out of sight silence reigned. Stiles began to fidget soon after.

"I think we have all we need," Hale finally said, standing. Boyd was slow to follow as Stiles spoke, "Are you sure you don't have any more questions?"

"I'm sure we've heard enough," Hale replied crisply, "Thank you very much for your time, Mr. Stilinski. Have a good day."

Stiles opened his mouth, but to say what was a mystery to him. Allison opened the door, looking flushed from running and instantly startled at the sight of the two detectives. Quickly she moved aside to let them pass, eyeing them until they were out of sight.

"What did I miss?" she asked. Stiles just buried his head in his hands.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is an incredibly short chapter, why? because this story isn't even supposed to _be_ chaptered! haha!!
> 
> .....
> 
> okay alright fine I'll post a bunch tonight.
> 
> don't say I never gave ya'll nuthin.

Stiles called his dad later that day and told him everything.

“You should’ve called me first,” he said.

“Yeah,” Stiles replied, rubbing his face with one hand, “I’m sorry I didn’t.”

“These detectives,” his dad sounded like he was tapping something, “They didn’t believe you?”

“They did until Malia told them I’d been in Eichen House,” he grumbled, still bitter, “I really could’ve helped, Dad, seriously--”

“Is the girl still around?”

Stiles glanced at the corner of his room, where Molly had been standing for the past forty minutes, eyes still blown, mouth still sewn shut, “Yeah.”

“You want to describe her to me?”

Stiles rattled off a brief description, looking back at his laptop and the empty word document he’d been trying to fill with an english paper. This was the worst parts of high school all over again, “She thinks I’m not doing anything to help her.”

“Well you're a student, Stiles, you can only do so much,” his father consoled, “Tell you what, I’ve got a couple days off coming up, why don’t I swing by for a day or two before I visit your grandparents?”

Stiles perked up at that, “Really?” then the rest of his sentence registered and he slumped, “Which set?”

Stiles’ dad chuckled, “Both. But Babcia and Dziadzio first.”

Stiles frowned, then shrugged, “Can I come?”

“You’ll be in school, kid, and you’re not skipping. You can see them during spring break.”

Stiles grumbled. He liked his Mom’s parents, but they lived all the way up in Maine. And not the sane part of Maine either, the part of Maine that the rest of the country looked on with befuddled amusement. No, they lived in northern Maine. The part of Maine where you brought 20 five-gallon cans of gas and four extra tires when you went bear hunting. The part of Maine where your nearest neighbor could be fifty miles away. The part of Maine where you carried a shotgun to weed your garden. Just in case.

Stiles loved his grandparents, but he loved them best when he had his dad to help when Dziadzio inevitably put him to work. _Buduje charater_ , the old man would grumble. Stiles thought he had that in spades.

“Stiles.”

“Hm?” Stiles came back from his musings. Molly was gone.

“You with me now?” his dad joked, “I was about to send a search party.”

Stiles barked a laugh, “Nah I’m fine. I’ve got a paper I need to stop putting off though.”

“Then I’ll let you go.”

“Love you, Dad.”

“Love you too, son.”


	6. Chapter 6

And that was that. Stiles' days as an amature sleuth for the NYPD were over before they’d even started and school was back in the forefront of his mind. Well mostly. Okay partially. 

He was having trouble focusing.

This was stupid; he considered himself done but apparently this ghost hadn’t gotten the message. She started appearing not only for Stiles, but the others too. And not in a good way.

“ _Fuck!_ ”

There was a crash from the kitchen and Stiles sprang to his feet. He and Allison were the only ones home at the time, what with Scott working late at the lab and Malia picking up an extra shift at work. Stiles skidded through the door, question on the tip of his tongue, when he saw Allison, pale and clutching the counter, a broken bowl of cut fruit at her feet.

“She came out of nowhere,” Allison whispered. Stiles set his teeth, frustration and shame spreading through his limbs like adrenaline.

“I’m so sorry,” he said emphatically, pulling her from the kitchen to sit on the couch, “Are you okay?”

“Yeah,” Allison shook her head, placing it in her hands and taking a deep breath before meeting Stiles’ eyes, “Yeah, I just wasn’t expecting her. Is that the girl? From the platform? Are her eyes real?”

“I don’t know,” Stiles shrugged, standing back up, “That’s just how she presents herself. Do you want some water? Here, let me turn on the TV.”

“Stiles, I’m fine,” she said certainly, “I was just startled.”

“Remind me not to throw you a surprise party,” Stiles joked weakly. Allison laughed anyway, apparently relaxing with the easy banter.

She seemed to stay mostly in the kitchen, probably because that was where the most electronics were, but at one point she made it to the bathroom, and one even more memorable time into Stiles’ closet.

“Alright, you know what?” Stiles oafed through a mouth full of toothpaste the second time she appeared in the bathroom mirror, “That’s enough. I can’t do anything else, alright? You have to let me go or I’m going to force you.”

The room chilled, making Stiles shiver, “You’re not helping your case Molls.”

Instantly the room snapped back to warm, and Stiles sighed with relief. Maybe he’d get a night to himself for once.

And he was right. Kinda. He had a weird dream where he was walking up and down a stage with a crazy haired guy shouting at him to glide, Molls _glide! Come on it’s a catwalk not a sidewalk, head up there you go, gorgeous, flawless, you’re the best baby now one more time…_

To be honest it was a very weird dream.

The next day was probably the best he'd had in awhile. He made it to class on time, got through the day with only one elderly gentleman talking his ear off during his history of medieval art seminar, and even got a few good sketches done on the... street... outside a club....

Stiles stared at the building in front of him, then down at the paper. His drawing was the exact same place, except obviously at night, the door roped off and a line filing out of view. Stiles looked up again, reading the marquee. The Jungle.

Huh. Stiles could already feel the insistent tug, like fingers pulling him forward and, not being one to keep a lady waiting, dead or alive, he followed it with some resignation through the door. Inside, the walls were painted black, and high open ceilings gave the place a weirdly ongoing feel, like if the lights weren't on he'd be suspended in eternity...

"Hey!" A familiar voice shouted, making Stiles jump, "Kid we're closed, how'd you get in here?"

"I uh..." Stiles motioned to the door, mouth working while he tried to think of an excuse, "Molly. I was-- she said to meet her. Here. I'm supposed to meet her here."

"Are you stupid?" the man's eyes narrowed, his dark hair going haywire over even more erratic eyebrows, "Molly doesn't work here anymore. She's dead you idiot, take a hike."

Stiles startled, shocked by the blunt response. He may deal with ghosts on the daily, but he'd never run into a reaction like this. And because he was so thrown off guard his immediate response was, "No, I know that."

Which was, of course, the absolute _worst_ response he could have had.

"You know? You _know_?" Stiles wasn't sure if the guy was going to punch him or throw him out on his ass, "What do you mean, _you know_? What do you know?"

"Nothing!" Stiles said, slightly strangled as he lifted his hands in supplication.

" _Nothing_?" The man stepped forward, right into Stiles' personal space, "You sure as hell know _something_ if you're walking in here--"

"She's a ghost I see ghosts she's following me!" And yes, okay, before you ask, Stiles was well aware of how shrill he sounded.

The man, however, just blinked, "What?"

"I'm psychic," Stiles explained, trying to relax without letting his guard down, "Well, a Medium. I see ghosts. And Molly's been following me around for weeks."

"You're full of shit," the man decided, still eyeing him disdainfully.

"I swear I'm not," Stiles insisted.

The man stared him down then took a step back, "Prove it."

"Prove what?" 

"The psychic thing!" The man flapped his hand in irritation.

"Oh," Stiles blinked, casting his mind around, "Uh. I mean it doesn't really work like that..."

"You've got three seconds."

“Right, okay, uh,” Stiles cast his mind around again, trying to feel something, anything. He snapped his fingers, “There’s a woman.”

The man scoffed, looking almost offended.

“No, no hear me out, she keeps calling you muffin and saying how proud she is of you, but she wishes you maybe would’ve opened up a classier place and uh…” Stiles stared at the man’s shoulder, where he could see the faint shadow of a hand, could hear the lowest rattling chuckle, “Oh my God, that’s so Long Island. She just threw her hands up in the air and said but what do I know Bobby, I’m just your poor mother.”

“What?” the guy went from astonished to confused to pissed in the space of a second, “Ma? Seriously?”

“She says she liked the garlands better?” Stiles offered, mildly confused.

“Gardenias, Ma, Jesus Christ,” the man squeezed the bridge of his nose, “Just like her. Dead eight years and still giving me trouble. Okay, come with me.”

After a moment's hesitation and another erratic motion from the man, Stiles awkwardly followed him over behind the long bar to a room just behind, an office, where he flapped his hand for Stiles to sit and took a seat himself.

"Just to be clear," Stiles said, kind of hating to ask, "You believe me."

"Yeah, yeah," the man waved his hand dismissively, "I believe you kid. Anyone you can survive a conversation with my mother deserves to be heard.”

Stiles blinked, “Really?”

“Yes really,” the man’s erratic annoyance seemed to be returning, “So what do you want, kid? I'm a very busy man, don't waste my time.”

“Oh uh…” Stiles looked back down at his notebook, trying to get ideas. See this is why you made a plan, so you didn’t walk into closed nightclubs with your pants around your ankles. Or something. He’s sure his father said that once, “So this is your club?”

“Kid, I said I’ll answer your questions not repeat myself,” the man replied.

Stiles chuckled nervously, “Right. Sorry. Uh… Okay so what is this place?”

The man looked at Stiles like he was the slowest human being in the world, “A club.”

“Right, but what kind of club?”

“A _drag_ bar, kid.”

“Oh,” Stiles refocused on the room, seeing it in a new light, “Really?”

The man buried his face in his hands with a strangled noise.

“I mean yeah of course, I knew that,” Stiles backpedalled awkwardly, “And Molly was a… she worked here.”

“She was one of my best acts when I could get her to focus,” the man said, slumping back in his seat, “The problem was I couldn’t keep her clean long enough most nights to get through an entire show.”

“She was an addict?” Stiles asked, his stomach sinking. He’d had a feeling but to have it confirmed…

“Rolling almost every night,” the man sighed, “I run a clean show here and I gave her every chance I could, but you can’t save those who aren’t looking for help, kid. You remember that.”

“Yeah,” Stiles didn’t really hear him, too caught up in his own thoughts. Drugs were a problem. If Molly had been high when she fell… well her entire story might be a lie. The hall could be her own head, the hands her addiction. Her fall could have been an accident and if that were the case--

A rush of feeling hit Stiles like a mack truck, forcing him to sway forward and blurt, “Did you two date?”

“What?” the club owner looked offended… and a little embarrassed.

“I would never--” he blustered, but Stiles cut him off.

“She just said she was working to get clean for you. Do you know anything about that?”

“Listen,” the guy was quickly turning into all pomp, “I try not to show favoritism to my girls, alright? That would ruin my business.”

Stiles waited, “But?”

After a moment of tight lipped fury, he deflated, still agitated, “She stayed with me a few nights a week. I didn’t treat her any differently at work. There was no favoritism.”

Something sunk low in Stiles’ stomach, “She says she thanks you for that time. They’re her favorite memories.”

“Really?” it seemed like a slip of the tongue more than an actual question.

Stiles nodded, “She says she misses the pancakes.”

The man scoffed. Or huffed. It was hard to tell because suddenly he was digging through his desk and producing a wrinkled polaroid of a boy, maybe a little older than Stiles, with pale freckled skin and carrot top orange hair pulled sleek into a wig cap, make-up over exaggerated and flawless, ripped black fishnets held up by a black lace garter belt and pink bows, small ruffled pink boyshorts and black babydoll pumps. Stiles blushed furiously and quickly looked at other parts of the picture: the ratty apartment, still nicer than his own, the old stove flame just a little too high and the smoking cast iron skillet.

“She couldn’t cook to save her soul,” he chuckled, taking the photo back, “Which is great because I can’t either. Something to bond over.”

“Yeah,” Stiles said again, finally feeling like he’d overstayed his welcome, “Thank you. For showing me this. And for letting me steal your time, but I should really be--”

“Yeah, yeah, stop by anytime,” the owner dismissed him as if the conversation didn’t matter, flapping his hand, one eye still on the photo.

Stiles nodded dumbly and got to his feet, making a beeline for the exit. Until his dying day he’ll blame all the information he’d unwittingly earned from the nightclub owner for not paying attention as he pushed the door open and ran headlong into none other than Detective Hale.

“ _Shit_ ,” Stiles jerked backward in shock, staring at kaleidoscopic blue-green eyes before saying a very intelligent, “Heeeeey there detective, what brings you to this neck of the woods?”

Stiles should be awarded for not outright punching himself in the face. By Hale’s look, he might not have to.

“Mr. Stilinski,” he replied, coldly, “I might ask you the same question.”

“Oh I was just uh…” Stiles jabbed his thumb toward the bar, his mouth working even as no words came out, “Grabbing… lunch, but the, the, kitchen’s closed so I’m just gonna--”

Hale pressed a firm hand into his chest to stop him from escaping, “What are you doing here, Mr. Stilinski?”

“It’s Stiles, Detective, seriously,” Stiles said sourly, trying (and failing by the looks of it) to derail the conversation.

Hale’s hand went from planted to fisted, “Answer my question.”

“Hey, hey, hey, no brawling in my bar, what the hell is wrong with you?”

Stiles turned, his chest flooding with relief, to see their interrupter, his savior, the bar owner. And Stiles was just realizing he didn’t even know the guy’s name.

“Bobby Finstock?” Detective Hale asked, releasing Stiles to flash his badge, “My name is Detective Derek Hale. I had some questions about a former employee of yours by the name of Marcus Greenburg.”

“I don’t know ‘em,” Finstock shot back.

“He means Molly,” Stiles interjected. Detective Derek Hale glared at Stiles and Stiles raised his hands, stepping away, “Dude, just trying to help.”

“Don’t,” he snapped, but turned back to Finstock with a bit more sympathy, “I do mean Molly Green.”

Finstock sighed, somehow managing to look annoyed and crestfallen all at once, “Yeah, yeah, come on back. Jesus shit I gotta cover all this again…”

Hale spun on his heel and pinned Stiles with a stare, “Don’t go anywhere,” he ordered.

Stiles followed that direction for as long as it took the good detective to shut the office door behind him, then he beat it.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> just blessings on blessings on blessings in this house huh kids?

“I told you not to move,” a voice said harshly above Stiles.

He jumped about a foot off his chair and gaped at Detective Hale. Stiles looked around the busy coffee shop, but it looked like the only person being disturbed was him.

“What, like you expected me to just _stay there_?” he asked incredulously.

Hale gritted his teeth, “I expected you to listen to an officer. Especially with your background.”

“Okay, first off I didn’t run, I left because I had no reason to stay. And second, my _background_? What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Your father’s a cop isn’t he?” Hale asked, taking the seat across from Stiles, “I would have thought that would instil a level of respect.”

“Oh you are clearly not a cop’s kid,” Stiles couldn’t help snorting. At Hale’s glare he cleared his throat, “I have respect for the law, dude--”

“Don’t call me dude.”

“--I just know when to get out of the way.”

“Really,” and Hale had that disbelieving note in his voice his dad sometimes got, which sent Stiles’ alarms blaring, “Because I finally got around to calling your dad. You know what he said when I introduced myself?”

Stiles knew exactly what he’d said, “What?”

“What’s he done this time,” Hale sat back as if he’d said something prophetic, “Sounds like you get yourself mixed up in trouble a lot.”

“In my defence, I really don’t, it’s just a small town,” Stiles replied sourly.

“He digs you out often, doesn’t he?”

“No more than usual.”

“Did he cover up the voices too?”

Stiles’ insides went cold, “What?”

“How many breakdowns did you have before they put you in that psych ward? Four?”

“Shut up,” Stiles hissed, leaning forward, his heart pounding in his ears, “You don’t know _shit_ about that, okay?”

“See because I think that’s what’s wrong with you. I think you run around saying you can talk to spirits, manipulating people, because it makes you feel powerful. Makes you feel better about yourself. I think you’re a liar and a fake, and I’m going to prove it.”

Heat flushed through Stiles, sending his vision red. Every part of him wanted to reach across the table a punch Detective Hale in the face, but a part of him, a saner part with his father’s voice told him, simply, “It’s his opinion.”

Another, stronger voice, his own voice in fact, said, “Fuck you. _Fuck_ you, man. You don’t know _shit_ about me or my experiences. You don’t know _shit_ about that place. _Or_ where I was in my life. I’ve seen this shit since I was _four_. I’ve been talking to fucking dead people since I was _seven_. You think they didn’t check me out then? You think I haven’t had my whole town, my whole fucking _city_ look at me like I’m batshit crazy when I ask someone if their grandma made them orange truffle cookies every year for their birthday? Or tell someone their kid loves and misses them but wants them to move on? You _really think_ you’re the first person to call me a fucking liar when I try to help them out?”

At some point during Stiles’ rant, Hale had gone pale, which Stiles decided was a good look for him, so he continued, “You wanna know why I went into that “psych ward”? Because I was having dreams of torturing people I love. Because I would wake up standing in the middle of the fucking forest with no memory of falling asleep, or I would scream myself awake after having entire dreams of _days_ going by. Or I would have dreams of waking up and waking up and waking up because I couldn’t fucking get out of my own head. I stopped being able to tell what was real and what wasn’t so _I_ checked myself into Eichen House. Not my dad, not some social worker, _me_. Because _I_ knew I needed help. And crazy people don’t. So _fuck_ you, Detective Hale. Have a nice day.”

And Stiles got up and left. Hale, for his credit, didn’t try to stop him.


	8. Chapter 8

Later, Stiles realized he’d made a huge mistake. Of course he had, he’d just screamed at an on duty detective in the middle of a crowded coffee shop. That shit was probably on YouTube by now. He had to apologize. He went online and found the number for Hale’s precinct and called it up. He wasn’t there, but his partner was.

“Boyd.”

“Hey,” Stiles cleared his throat and tried again, “This is. Uh, Stiles Stilinski, I was wondering if--”

“Listen kid,” Boyd sounded pretty annoyed, “For your own good you should really let this go--”

“No, no, I know, I’m not calling about that,” a forceful nudge to his shoulder told him exactly what a certain someone thought about that, but he waved her off, “I’m trying to get ahold of Detective Hale.”

“He’s not here.”

“Yeah I know,” another shove nearly sent Stiles sprawling so he got up from his desk chair and started to pace, “I’m trying to call to apologize.”

“I’ll pass on the message.”

“No see that’s--” but he was met with a dial tone. Stiles sighed, throwing his phone on his bed only to feel another nudge. Frustratedly he turned on the empty room and shouted, “What?”

Then he was pushed. He was pushed so hard he went down, knocking his head against the wall and his shoulder against his desk chair. Dazed, he laid on the ground, blinking at Detective Hale standing over him. He looked cold and annoyed. His smile, too big for his face, foreshadowing his overwhelming anger. Stiles knew what was going to happen before it did. He covered his face with his arms, pulling his body into a ball to ward off the impending strike--

But it never came. Stiles opened his eyes to a once again empty room. The flicker of a shadow disappeared into his closet with a soft click as it passed through the closed door and he got to his feet, shaken. He didn’t understand the vision. Hale was an asshole, yeah, and he pushed Stiles’ buttons, but this wasn’t right. This 100% did not feel right.

Stiles wrenched open the closet and grabbed his coat, wallet, keys, cell, not bothering to close anything as he made for the apartment door.

“Where are you going?” Scott asked from his position on the couch.

“I just need some air,” Stiles replied, “Just a quick walk, I promise. I got my phone.”

Stiles skipped down the stairs, not sure what he was trying to outrun. He hadn’t felt this out of sorts for a long time. He was still trembling as he stuffed his hands in his pockets and started walking on autopilot toward the subway, unsure where to go from there. He decided against wasting a swipe, instead taking the stairs back down to the street and walking to a nearby bodega for some water. And a sandwich. Two sandwiches. He grabbed some chips while he was at it and began the trek back to his apartment. He didn’t feel any better by the time he got to his building, so he sat down to eat, figuring the feeling would go away if he just stayed outside. And it work. Kind of. It worked until a black Camaro with Jersey plates stopped in front of his stoop.

Stiles straightened, still chewing his sandwich, wondering if the world was really this weird. And hey, turns out it is.

“Mr. Stilinski,” Detective Hale said, coming around the car.

“Do you really drive that thing all the way from New Jersey every day to work?” Stiles couldn’t help asking. Hale blinked, glancing at the car.

“No,” he said.

Stiles blinked back, “Oh. Well okay then.”

“I wanted to speak with you,” Hale started, squaring his shoulders. The look sent a tingle a trepidation down Stiles’ spine but he shook it off. That was a vision. This was real life. He still had ten fingers.

“How many fingers do you have?” Stiles asked.

Hale’s eyes narrowed, “What?”

“Humor me,” Stiles encouraged, keeping his tone light, “Show me your hands.”

Hale held up his hands. Ten fingers. Stiles relaxed, “How can I help you, detective?”

Hale seemed to suck his teeth, actively stopping himself from saying something, “I wanted to say I was sorry for my actions earlier today.”

Stiles gaped, taken aback, “Uh, dude-- Detective, you don’t need to apologize. I was the one who flew off the handle.”

“Yeah, you did,” Hale put his hands in his pockets, and Stiles finally realized he was dressed down. _Way_ down. Like blue jeans and leather jacket down. Jesus how could a guy who scowled so much be so freakin’ _hot_?

“But I put you there,” Hale continued, breaking Stiles from his revery, “You’re not under investigation. I was out of line.”

Stiles looked down at his sandwich, still half eaten, “Thank you.”

There was a moment of silence, then Stiles straightened his spine, “You hungry?”

Hale shifted, “I could eat.”

“Sandwich?” Stiles held up the bag he’d had between his feet. After a moment’s hesitation, Hale reached out and took it, moving to sit next to Stiles. They ate in companionable, though somewhat tense, silence. Stiles inhaled the rest of his sandwich and reached back into the bag for the barbeque chips.

“So,” he finally said, popping the bag open, “How long have you been on the force?”

“Five years,” Hale replied, picking at his lettuce.

Stiles whistled, “And you’re already a Detective?”

Hale shrugged, his ears pinking, “I’m good at what I do.”

“No shit,” Stiles mused, “Army?”

“Mm,” Hale confirmed, swallowing his bite, “You pick that up with your little ESP too?”

Stiles barked a laugh, “No. I’m a cop’s kid, remember? It was an educated guess.”

“An educated guess,” Hale said, “You make those often?”

“Sometimes,” Stiles knew exactly where this conversation was going, “Not about the important stuff.”

“Like dead people?”

Stiles shifted uncomfortably, “Listen, I get you don’t believe me, just don’t throw it in my face, alright?”

Hale was quiet for a moment, “I’m not trying to belittle you, Mr. Stilinsk--”

“Stiles,” Stiles interrupted, “Jesus, please just call me Stiles. You’re in jeans, I'm in sweatpants. It’s Stiles.”

“I’m not trying to belittle you, Stiles,” Hale soldiered on, “But you have to admit, what you're saying sounds impossible.”

“Oh, trust me, I get it,” Stiles leaned back, setting his elbows on the step above him, “There’s a reason I don’t bring it up in casual conversation.”

“Your roommates, though,” Hale said, shifting as well, “They believe you?”

Stiles blew out a breath, “Yeah. Scott always believed me. Allison too, her mother was a spiritualist. And Malia… I mean we met under shitty circumstances, but we bonded.”

“At Eichen House,” Hale posited.

Stiles grimaced, shame and fear welling up in his chest, but he nodded, “At Eichen House.”

“Those, uh,” Hale fidgeted with his wrapper, and Stiles got the feeling they were finally approaching the real reason Detective Hale had driven all the way out to Queens, “Those dreams you had. The thoughts you were admitted for. Did you ever--”

“No I never acted on them,” Stiles kept his eyes open, letting them blur as he stared at the streetlights down the road, “They scared me. And I had a hard time figuring out what was real and what wasn’t, but I never acted on them.”

“And you’re sure they were brought on by some sort of spirit or--”

“Yeah,” Stiles cut in, rising to his feet, “I’m positive.”

“Hey wait,” Hale caught his wrist, “I’m sorry, I have to ask.”

“I know,” Stiles shook off his grip, “My dad did too.”

Then he went inside, closing the door quietly behind him.


	9. Chapter 9

The next few days were awful. Stiles was working on next to no sleep, even resorting to taking his sleeping pills twice just to catch enough shut eye to make it worth going to class. Because screw that, right? Why sleep at night when you can have horrible nightmares about being choked to death _during the day_?

Stiles took it out on a canvas when he was supposed to be drawing people. Instead he drew demons. Warped and hungry, reaching, screaming, pain and fury reflected in their eyes…

Stiles “accidentally” dropped paint all over it. He cut it from the frame and trashed it for good measure. He hated not sleeping. It drove him to bad places.

“Stiles?”

Stiles looked up from the infomercial he’d been staring at for who knows how long, “Yeah?”

“Have you been up all night?” Allison asked.

Stiles blinked, checking his phone, “Uh, yeah?”

Allison gave him a worried look, “You want to go for a run with me?”

“Uh,” Stiles looked around himself, taking in last night’s dinner plate he’d never put in the sink, the empty beer bottles and redbull cans lying around him. A not so good feeling crept up his throat, “Yeah. Gimme a sec.”

He hurriedly stood, collecting as much as he could in one go and dumping it in the kitchen before skipping to change into something more runner-appropriate. He followed Allison out of the apartment, down the stoop and after a light stretch, straight down the road. She set a punishing pace. Well, punishing for Stiles. He might be built like a runner, but that by no means meant he was one. Not a half a mile later he was ready to call it quits, but Allison pushed him for another mile before turning them home. 

“Rem--” Stiles could barely speak, “Remind-- me….. Jesus Christ…. Never running… with you again…. Fuck….”

Allison cooed, patting his back, “You handled it like a champ, Stiles.”

“I… am a champion,” Stiles could feel his lungs actively trying to escape through his throat, “Thanks, Al.”

“No problem,” she patted him one more time, “Go take a nap. But stretch first.”

“Wait aren’t you coming in?”

“I’ve got a couple more miles I want to get in,” she smiled.

“Oh right of course,” Stiles waved for her to go, “Never mind me, carry on.”

“Go stretch.”

“I know.”

“And drink some water!”

“I know!”

By the time Stiles made it upstairs he could barely stand let alone stretch. Still he made a token effort, and when Allison got back an hour later, Stiles was passed out cold, arms and legs awkwardly akimbo across the couch.


	10. Chapter 10

“What’s this?” Malia asked, picking up a crumpled picture on Stiles’ floor.

Stiles blinked from under his arm. He was on his bed, trying to catch a little sleep, “Uh,” Stiles squinted at the red pencil sketch, “Thanatos.”

“Hm,” Malia stared at it, drinking it in, “Isn’t that the Marvel guy?”

“No, that’s Thanos,” Stiles watched her from the bed, “Come take a nap with me.”

“You move too much,” she said, picking up another piece, this one shredded, “What was this?”

Stiles sighed covering his eyes again for a moment, “Let me see.”

Malia held it up. It was hands covered in barbed wire reaching for an empty vase.

“Fate,” Stiles said shortly. Even as he said it, it felt cliche.

Malia made another noise, “Cheery.”

“Mm,” Stiles turned over, covering his head, “What time is it?”

“Three,” Malia replied.

“It can’t be three, it was three three hours ago,” Stiles groused.

Silence greeted him.

“It’s three am,” Malia said.

Stiles stilled, his body going cold. Slowly he pulled his arm from his face and looked out his window. Darkness. Not warm sunshine. He sat up, putting his feet on the floor.

“Stiles?” Malia asked carefully.

Stiles didn’t answer, instead he looked at his hands, carefully counted his fingers. Malia moved to be in front of him, pressing her hands into his so he could count hers too. He counted them eight times before he looked up, his eyes bright.

“What did I do today?”

“This,” Malia motioned around the room, showing him the chaos, the paper everywhere, the writing and sketches on the walls, the light bulbs lined up neatly on his desk, the mural made completely out of sharpie and sticky notes carefully constructed right next to his closet depicting the hall. The exact same hall. A different hall. Stiles was shaking again.

“Let’s go,” he took Malia’s hand and led her from the room, pulling the door shut behind them.

“Stiles,” Malia said.

Stiles ignored her, going for Scott’s sneakers by the door, “Let’s go get breakfast, huh?”

“Stiles.”

He stopped, not looking at her.

“I’m worried,” Malia said.

“We all are,” Scott said from his door, making both of them jump.

Stiles stared at his friend's, eyes flickering from Scott to Allison just behind him to Malia just at his side. He deflated, fear and nausea flooding him.

“I’m not going crazy,” he said, feeling weak.

Scott nodded, understanding in his eyes, “Let’s all go get breakfast.”


	11. Chapter 11

They decided on a place a few blocks away, a place that made fresh baked goods all night and was only open until ten AM. Stiles still couldn’t figure how they made enough money to stay open but for once decided against asking. He sat in the corner of the booth, quietly counting his fingers under the table. Malia took his hand when she noticed, keeping it firmly in her grip while the table ordered. Stiles took the water he was offered and drank mechanically. Everyone kept their hands above the table. He felt like a leper.

“Stiles.”

Stiles looked at Scott, who glanced at the plate of food that had miraculously appeared in front of him. Missing most of its bacon.

“Dude!” he said, gathering his strength to be offended. Scott held up his hands, side-eyeing Allison who for all the world looked like a perfect angle.

“Dude!” he said again, this time with more feeling, reaching to snatch a piece of sausage from her plate.

She deftly slapped his hand away with the flat of her butter knife, “Nope. You snooze, you lose Stilinski.”

“That is entirely unfair,” he groused, sitting up straighter, “I wasn’t ready!”

“I’ll share with you, Stiles,” Scott pressed his small plate of extra bacon across the table.

“Thank you, Scotty,” Stiles took a little over half for himself, glaring at his best friend’s girlfriend, “At least _someone_ has my back.”

Malia took his top pancake, then the rest of his measly bacon when he tried to get it back.

“Okay, you know what?” Stiles bodily blocked the rest of the table from his plate, “No. That’s it. All of you are fired. Get out.”

Allison cracked up and Malia graciously gave back the last slice of bacon. For a moment, Stiles was satisfied.

“Dude,” Scott nudged his foot, his face dark, “Isn’t that the cop?”

Stiles glanced over his shoulder, doing a double take at the sight of Detective Hale holding the door open for a woman, beautiful and blond with sharp green eyes, dressed to the nines which was very impressive at four in the morning. He turned back in his seat, taking a huge bite of eggs, “Yeah that’s one of them.”

“Hm,” Scott said, eyeing Hale as he and the woman walked by. The detective didn’t seem to notice their table, but Stiles still didn’t move until he was past.

“So I’m full,” Stiles said, “Move Malia, I’ll get the check--”

“Sit down and eat your food,” Malia pressed him back in his seat with her elbow, steadily working her way around her plate.

“Come on, guys, I’m trying to be nice--”

Allison snorted, “You can do better than that.”

“What, better than be nice?” Stiles asked obtusely, picking his fork back up and eyeing Detective Hale’s back over Scott’s right shoulder two booths away.

“Sure,” Allison rolled her eyes, “That’s exactly what I mean.”

Stiles huffed, slumping back in his seat and finally starting on his food. Which was delicious. Wow, has greasy food always been this good?

“Excuse me,” Stiles flagged down their waitress, mouth still half full of pancake, “Could I get an omelette with everything?”

“Home fries?” she asked, taking a note.

“And coffee. And bacon because you all are horrible people. And orange juice. To go.”

“And the check,” Allison added.

“I’ll bring it right out,” The waitress smiled.

“Seriously though, I gotta pee, let me out,” Stiles complained, starting to climb over Malia before she squawked and stumbled out to let him leave. Stiles made it, which was good because he was sure these were his last clean pants. He blamed his shortness of breath on that. As well as the shaking. And the black spots. And the whole not being able to stand up thing.

No, Stiles wasn't having a panic attack. Really. He'd had panic attacks. This wasn't a panic attack. This was…

A mild bout of anxiety. Yeah. He just needed to concentrate and breathe and he would be just fine. Just-- just fine. Juuuuuuust fine. Yeah. There, see? Breathing completely normal. Now he just had to get off the floor. Perfect, one foot at a time. Hand for balance aaaaaand…

“Stiles?” Scott called, pushing through the door, “Dude are you okay?”

“Yeah,” Stiles tried smiling, still feeling breathless, “Yeah just spaced out for a sec. Let me wash my hands.”

“Sure,” Scott eyed him carefully. Stiles did his best to ignore him while he thoroughly washed his hands, wrists, under his nails, etc., and wiped dry on a paper towel.

“What?” Stiles finally laughed, “Dude I'm not gonna keel over.”

Scott smiled, “I know.”

“So stop being weird!” He shoved Scott gently back into the diner, keeping his eyes forward and _not_ checking out a back table seating a beautiful blond and a ruggedly handsome detective. Which is why he didn't see the detective startle at the sight of him bursting out of the bathroom. Nor did he see the blond turn to stare with interest. Malia did though. She even waved.

And to her utter delight, the blond waved back.

**Author's Note:**

> Remember that all, what? Yup, that's right: comments, kudos, questions, and concerns are welcome. Please and Thank ya!


End file.
